A little white lie
by MLaw
Summary: Napoleon and Illya are caught in an embarassing situation. Originally posted for the PicFic Tuesday challenge on section7mfu, live journal. Pre-saga. The photo prompt is the story cover.


The reds and yellows of the sunrise were just beginning shine above the headstones that surrounded Napoleon Solo as he woke; finding himself sprawled out on the ground in a cemetery with the distinctive odor of old death permeating the air.

As he looked at the dates on some of the headstones, they dated back to the 1800's so yes, there was old death there for sure. Most likely those coffins were just buried in the ground without benefit of a vault, allowing the natural process of putrification and decay to permeate the ground.

There were hundreds and hundreds of grave markers surrounging him, some weathered and stained by time, and he wondered just exactly where he was, as he had no recollection of how he'd gotten here. Well he knew at least he was still in New York as he recognized the distinctive city skyline in the distance, especially the Empire state building towering above the rest.

"You all right son?" A voice spoke from a dark silhouette standing above him, leaning on a shovel.

"Ugh...yeah I think so." Solo was a little slow on the uptake, feeling quite groggy as if he were hung over, though he knew he definitely wasn't.

He was offered a hand and helped up from the ground by an older gentleman dressed in overalls and while Napoleon was dusting off his suit he discovered one of his jacket pockets was torn as were the knees of his trousers. He patted his side and discovered with a sinking feeling that his shoulder holster was empty.

"Damn, not again," he muttered.

"Mighty fancy suit...shame it be ruined from the looks of it?"

'Tell me about it. This is the third one this month and my boss is…"

"Yes?"

Solo bit his tongue, quickly changing his mind on what he was going to say.

"My boss is going to wonder where I've gotten to. Where exactly are we?" He asked.

"Mount Calvary Cemetery."

"Which one?"

"This be the new one on the West side of 58th Street."

That was a relief; though it was in Queens, it would be easy to get back to headquarters. The last thing Napoleon remembered was being in a parking garage with Illya on 42nd Street...wait Illya?"

"Say you didn't happen to find a blond-haired fellow around here as well? He's slightly built, wearing a black suit and turtleneck and his hair is a bit on long side, sort of like a Beatles haircut."

"Beetles? Don't know about no beetles Mister. I be the groundskeeper here and I ain't never had no trouble with bugs. Now I dids find a fella like you described… found him just 'fore sunrise. He in the caretaker's office nursing his head with an ice pack. You two musta been on one helluva toot last night." *

"Yeah, a bender, "Napoleon agreed with him just to keep it that way for the moment.

He followed the old man to the office and there sitting with his elbow leaning on the desk, holding that icepack to his head was his partner, looking pale bur none the worse for wear.

"So you woke up here too?" The Russian mumbled, venturing a guess by the condition of Solo's clothing.

"Yup. Any ideas how we got here?"

"Oh I know exactly what happened."

"Enlighten me, tovarisch?"

"We were mugged."

"No way…"

"Why would I lie? We were rolled in the parking garage by three ruffians brandishing sawed off shotguns. You were knocked out, and we were both shoved into our car, which they stole by the way," he gestured with a wave of his hand. "Here is where they drove to dump us off in the middle of the night. We were about to have been killed but something scared them off..apparently they were all superstitious and afraid of ghosts. They thought they saw one. The last thing I recall was being hit on the head."

"So we were lucky."

Illya lowered the ice pack; checking the bump on his head with a wince.

"I will give you that, but in the mean time we will be hard pressed to explain to Mr. Waverly why our guns are missing, along with our identification. I still have my wallet and drivers license however, the cash is gone.. I assume yours are gone as well, though they did leave my communicator pen," Illya said.

"Wow so maybe it was the moths that scared them off and not a ghost," Napoleon smiled.

"Please no cheap skate jokes. I had just cashed my paycheck, so I am out a lot of money.

"Ouch, sorry. Well I agree chum, the two top agents in the Command robbed by a bunch of punks...forget Waverly, no one in Section II will ever let us live it down."

Solo felt his pockets, finding his communicator and billfold still there and like his partner, all his cash was gone as well. "Nice of them to put our wallets back in our pockets," he mused.

"So what do you propose we do?" Illya asked. "There is still the matter of our missing weapons and U.N.C.L.E. identification cards?"

Napoleon smiled, " We were waylaid by two T.H.R.U.S.H. goons you see, and they took everything. We managed to find our communicators as we escaped their evil clutches."

"No, I told you we were mug..._oh I understand now_." It took the Russian a second to catch on. "So you are proposing we lie to Mr. Waverly?"

"Well it's just a little white lie," Napoleon smiled."We'll be telling the truth about being waylaid, having our guns, ID and our car taken from us...just the circumstances will have been changed."

At first Illya gave it obligatory eye roll. "Though I think this will eventually catch up with us...it works for me," the Russian agreed.

"I just want to know one thing Illya. How is it your suit is untouched and mine is a ruined?"

"Perhaps they did not like your tailor…" he snickered.

"Don't let Del hear you say anything like that," Napoleon warned.

"I stand corrected. Now may we go home?"

"Do you have any money for a cab?"

"No, remember they took my wallet?"

"Well then I guess we better call for a pickup from the motor pool…"

"We better get our stories straight as to why we are being picked up in a cemetery."

"Oh man, this is going to open a whole new can of worms."

Napoleon brow furrowed as he racked his brain trying to come up with a reason they were at Calvary cemetery…

"We were going to visit my Aunt Matilda's grave?"

"Napoleon you do not have an Aunt Matilda…"

Solo scrunched up his face, "Details details. You try coming up with something then."

"I think not. You are the great strategist. It is you who point and I follow."

"Coward."

"In this case, most definitely," Kuryakin smiled.

.

* Jazz age slang, meaning 'on a bender."


End file.
